fioritura
for @dokidoki-tae
word count: 4k
disclaimer: I know nothing about any of this (jojo, pro, pesci, kissing, the world) so… yeah. I apologize for absolutely everything that occurs in this piece, including the abysmal portrayal of Pro and Pesci. Sorry.
“Hope Alessandra likes the flowers!”
“I’m sure she will Shae, you know she always loves your arrangements,” Dino replied glancing down at the bouquet in his hands. The golden bell atop the door jingled as he made his way out. You brushed your apron down and glanced at the old clock against the wall; it was ten. Tying your brown hair back into a knot, you headed out of the shop to retrieve the buckets that showcased the days’ blooms. Several of the buckets found themselves vacant of any flowers as the beautiful spring day had brought in a surprisingly large mixture of familiar and new faces into the shop. You let out a sigh as she watched the last of the water from the buckets trickle down the drain. You dug into your apron for the keys to the shop as you made your way to the front. Flicking the light switch on your way out, you shut the old wooden door behind you and inserted the key to lock up for the night.
Prosciutto groaned and clutched his side as he took another step uphill into the dimly lit neighborhood. The mission had gone awry; someone had informed their target of La Squadra’s impending hit and, even with their Stands, Prosciutto and Pesci had been sorely undermanned. Now here he was, blood staining the ground beneath him, searching for the safehouse he knew lay hidden within this neighborhood. His breathing grew labored, as his body began to give into the pain of each cut and bruise scattered across his body. Prosciutto forced his body to move forward; with luck, he would arrive at the safehouse, reconvene with Pesci, and find a way back to La Squadra. He took another step forward. His vision was beginning to blur. He placed a hand on the wall to his right and stumbled forward again with a groan.
You heard a noise in the distance and froze. Slowly you turned your head to the street behind you; no one was out. This neighborhood was known to be quiet at nights; it was one of the reasons you moved in. Shaking your head, you began to put the keys back into your green apron pocket when you heard another groan. Your fingers gripped the keys and you turned to look in the direction of the noise. Then you saw him. He stumbled into the dimly lit circumference cast by one of the old streetlamps. Was he drunk? You stood still by the door of the shop; all you had to do was move a couple of feet to your left, and you could race up to your apartment to avoid the stranger. You mentally prepared to move when you noticed the red splattered across the blonde man’s clothes. Paint perhaps? You could hear his ragged breathing as the man pushed himself closer. Red was dripping off his face. Blood? You dug your fingernails into your palms. The man obviously needed help; he was bleeding. Injured. But what if? What if he was dangerous? A killer? What if this was all a ruse to get you to come closer so that he could hurt you? Your heart was pounding. You took a step towards him. Then another. And another.
“E-excuse me. Are you okay?” ‘Are you okay? Of course he’s not. He’s bleeding all over!’ You shook your head and moved closer to the man.
“H-here, let me help you.” You extended your hands out to him.
“I don’t…I don’t… need… your help.”
“Just let me-”
“I don’t…”
“You’re hurt. Please just let me-”
“I said I don’t need your fucking-” You gasped as the man toppled over by your feet.
“Shit.”
You checked his pulse. Faint but still present. For now.
You ran back to the shop, jamming the key into the keyhole, pushed open the wooden door-the bell jingled as you did so- and propped it open. You ran back to the man crumpled on the ground and tugged on a strand of your hair while your mind ran through every option you currently had.
With a huff, you lifted the man’s upper body and slowly began to drag him towards the shop. You prayed to whatever higher being was out in the universe that no one would see you; you knew how bad dragging a bloodied body around would look to anyone without context. Finally, you pulled his entire being into the shop and shut the door behind you. You ran your hands down your face and groaned. Your first thought was to tell Luisa- the shop’s owner- about this, but the older lady was probably dead asleep, and you didn’t want to bother her. You could call an ambulance but remembering the adamant manner in which the man refused even your help, you assumed he’d be against you doing so. You pulled on a stray strand of hair once more while pacing the room.
You stepped into the backroom and pulled out a tarp. You flattened it on the ground, moved towards the bloodied man on the ground, and pulled him onto the tarp. Gripping the ends of the tarp, You dragged him out of the shop once more; you couldn’t call the ambulance, you couldn’t leave him out in the street, and you surely couldn’t leave him in the shop for Luisa to see, so you would take him to your apartment. Locking up once more, you slowly moved towards the stairs that led to your home. You almost dropped the man but gathered all your strength to pull him all the way up and into your apartment. There, you released the ends of the tarp and fell back against the worn green couch in your living space. Your brown eyes took in the sight before you.
The man wore a dark suit, now bloodied and torn in some places, with what looked to perhaps have once been a yellow shirt underneath. A pendant hung askew around his neck. His blonde hair was also matted with blood. You lifted yourself from the comfort of the couch and squatted by the man examining his face a little closer. Though it was also covered in scrapes and blooming bruises, you could see he wasn’t an unfortunate looking man. Just a man in an unfortunate circumstance. A sigh escaped your lips, and you stood placing your hands on your hips. You had to patch him up.
Your fingers shook as you peeled his tattered suit jacket off followed by the yellow shirt that lay underneath. A gasp left your lips as you took in just how battered the man was. Gashes and bruises covered almost the entirety of his upper body. Gripping the soaked towel, you did your best to clean him of the caked blood around his wounds. You popped open the small first-aid kit and pulled out ointment. Gingerly, you applied a thin layer of the ointment to all of the wounds you could see and wrap the larger of the wounds. The same was done to the wounds on the remaining parts of his body.
You peeled the dirtied gloves from your hands and wiped your forehead. Inhale. Exhale. This was not how you had imagined your night to go. Leaning your head against the green couch which (for now) played makeshift bed to the stranger, you let sleep envelop your entire being.
It had been two nights.
The man was alive (you made sure of it), but he had yet to wake up. Although, with the amount of injuries he had sustained, you weren’t surprised. You set down a vase of sunflowers by the bedside- it would be something nice for him to look at when he woke up. You checked his bandages once more and placed a cool hand against his forehead. Glancing at the weathered watch on your slender wrist, you moved away from the bed, and, with one last look at the blonde, headed back downstairs to the flower shop.
The sunlight trickled in through the window illuminating Prosciutto’s face as he slept soundly in your bed. Slowly he became aware of the light uncomfortably beaming on him. His blue eyes struggled to adjust as they opened for the first time in two days. Where was he? Had he made it to the safehouse?
“Pesci?”
Nothing. He moved to sit up, immediately wincing at the pain that rushed through his body as he shifted slightly. His head hit the soft pillow underneath him. Letting out a frustrated sigh Prosciutto glared at the white ceiling. Where the hell washe?
The wooden door creaked open, and in stepped a woman. A woman? Slender. Dark brown hair that reached slightly below her shoulders. White billowy blouse. Light brown skirt. Brown boots. Prosciutto remained still and silent in the bed.
The woman looked up from the door handle and around the room first before letting her brown eyes fall upon his figure. Her smile was as radiant as the sunlight filtering through the window.
“You’re awake!”
Prosciutto simply stared back at the woman with a gaze fierce enough to send his enemies running. You simply set her bag down on a peg by the door and strode across the small room to the bed where he lay. His body tensed. You pushed up the sleeves of your white blouse and tugged at a strand of your brown hair.
“I honestly didn’t know when you would wake up…or if you would wake up at all. How are you feeling? Are you hungry? Thirsty? You probably want water, right? I can make you something to eat if you want. What do you like? I might have to go get some groceries, but I-”
“Shut up.”
“Huh?”
“Shut up. Who are you? Where am I?”
“Uh-um-I-i’m Shae. W-what’s your name? Also, you’re-uh-you’re in my home. I found you on the street a c-couple nights ago. You looked like death.”
Prosciutto let out a short laugh followed by a wince. You bit your lip as you watched him with careful eyes.
“Prosciutto. I have to go.”
“Prosciutto. Interesting- wait what?”
“I’m leaving,” he said in a gruff voice. Prosciutto attempted to lift his bandaged body from the bed. The sting of his healing wounds spread like wildfire across his entire being. He gritted his teeth together in an attempt to shove down the pain.
“Ya crees que te voy a dejar ir asi.”
Prosciutto’s icy blue eyes shot up to meet your chocolate ones. You stood before him, arms tightly crossed, a fierce newfound spirit in your eyes. Prosciutto sat up against the wall behind the bed.
“What did you just say?”
“You’re not leaving.”
“I am.”
“No. Not only have you been out for two days straight, but I’m one-hundred percent sure your injuries aren’t even fully healed. I mean look at you, you can barely sit up. So no, you’re not leaving.”
Prosciutto glared daggers at you and defiantly shifted to stand. The moment he attempted to stand a new wave of pain washed over him forcing him to fall back into the bed. His breathing was heavy as he tried to push past it. Suddenly he felt a warmth on his shoulder; you had placed your hand gently on him.
“Please just- don’t push yourself too much. You have to let your body heal hm?”
Prosciutto gave a curt nod. You smiled gently at him before clasping your hands together.
“How does some soup sound?”
Routine swiftly finds its home in the apartment settled above the flower shop. You wake up early from the green couch to prepare for a day spent amongst the flowers found below. Greeting each guest that finds their way into the shop with a bright demeanor and carefully assisting them in finding the flowers that speak to them. Prosciutto, initially, spends his days simply resting in the bed that has now exchanged its flowery scent for his own. He sleeps until his ears pick up on the familiar creak of the front door indicating that you have returned for lunch or dinner. He eyes the bouquet of neatly arranged flowers in your hand; every day brings a different set of flowers, but every day brings a set of flowers, nonetheless.
At first, you eat in silence; you at the small wooden table by the window, and he in bed. At first, the pair of you are just a wounded man and the woman who found him. At first, you’re simply strangers.
After a couple of days, Prosciutto finds himself joining you at the small wooden table by the window where your knees often bump the others. After a couple of days, every meal is accompanied with conversation; at first it is all small-talk, short, curt responses followed by awkward silences. After a couple of days, an ease settles, and conversation runs fluidly.
Prosciutto learns that you had recently concluded your studies at a university in the States and, upon concluding, had decided to move to Italy. He learned that you have siblings that you love and miss, but that your whole family was supportive of your living your own life, even if it was across the globe. You loved to read; something he had an inkling about due to the bookshelf that housed several titles in the small apartment. You decided to work for Signora Luisa because you loved the symbolism behind each flower, and when you prepare a bouquet, you do so thinking of how the meaning of each flower works with the other. You often explain the meaning of your home bouquets to him. He learns that your eyes sparkle like small gems catching light when you speak about something you love; that you tug at loose strands of your hair when you’re frustrated or in deep thought.
You learn that Prosciutto is a serious man who rarely speaks of himself. You learn some basics; his favorite food is steak, potatoes, and asparagus; he loves expensive wine; he enjoys wearing well-tailored suits. He has a distrust for trains. Prosciutto is dedicated to his craft (something you do not fully understand until much later). You learn that despite his cold and collected exterior he is a caring man, especially when it comes to someone named Pesci? Of whom he speaks with a subtle fondness on rare occasions. You learn that he is hardest on himself; his own worst enemy.
You learn he’s an assassin.
It’s been three weeks since you carried him home. You always wondered if he would ever explain that night to you, but you never gained the courage to ask. Not that you were sure he would provide you an answer if you did.
It’s been three weeks since he awoke in your home, and he’s aware that you’re curious. Still, he knows who he is, knows who you are; he knows just how different you both are. He knows how dangerous his world is, and you …you have kindness radiating off of you; you’re warmth personified and all of that is amplified only by your beauty. You don’t belong in his world. You are a good person.
He, on the other hand, is not.
And yet, there’s a growing piece of him that firmly believes you deserve to know who he is exactly. There’s a yearning to show you everything he is, but there’s the possibility you would hate him; he is a killer after all. There’s a possibility that you would send him away and tell him you never want to see him again; he’s no good. There’s a possibility that you wouldn’t. That’s the possibility he holds onto.
It is Friday night after dinner when he tells you. He calmly but slowly explains all that happened prior to your discovery of him on the street. Explains who Pesci is. Explains who La Squadra is. Explains Stands. Explains anything and everything he believe you may ask him about. You sit in silence for what feels like an eternity. You just stare at the wooden tabletop; there’s so many scrapes and chips in the wood; the lacquer is gone in so many spots. He’s an assassin.It’s cold in the room now; a small shiver runs through your arms. He’s mafia.
Prosciutto lets out a deep sigh; he was wrong. He pushes his chair back, the wood scraping against the floor, and stands. He strides across the small room to grab his patched-up jacket from the peg on the wall. You glance up at him with confusion.
“Where are you going?” You ask softly. He turns towards you. His eyes mirror your confusion.
“I’m leaving.”
“What? Why?”
“You do not want me here.”
“When did I say that? Sure, it’s a lot to process Pro, but,” you crossed the room and placed a hand over his, “you’re-you’re… still not fully recovered, so…stay.”
For the first time, Prosciutto hesitates. He’s highly aware that he’s well enough to head back to La Squadra; he’s been better for a couple of days now. He could leave. He should leave.
“Stay.”
“…Fuck.”
The final week of spring transforms into beautiful summer days. Prosciutto grows tired of spending his days in the apartment, and so he begins to venture down daily to the flower shop to watch you work. After a couple of days, Signora Luisa, believing that Pro is an old friend of yours- puts him to work. ‘If he’s going to be here all day, he might as well work’ she says firmly. Not even the trained assassin can negate her command. Prosciutto finds himself sweeping the shop, setting the display of flowers out every morning, and on occasion “helping” guests with selecting flower (though most guests come find you for help afterwards anyways). Today is no different. There are several people outside the shop glancing at the flowers on display. As he sets another bucket of marigolds out, several of them stare at his figure; he simply smirks and pushes back through the front door. The bell jingles as he walks in, eyes already searching the small shop for you. He notices you by the counter assisting Emilia, a regular at the shop or so you’ve told him, and so he simply stands and watches your interaction, subconsciously smiling as he sees your face light up once more as you explain the bouquet to Emilia.
“She’s bella, is she not?” A voice mentions from below. Prosciutto glances down to see the familiar, smaller, elderly Signora Luisa glancing in your direction.
“She is.”
“She speaks of you often, Prosciutto.”
“Ah. Does she?”
“She does. So fondly too.”
“Mmm.”
His eyes return to you just in time to catch your own eyes looking his way. You send him one of your blindingly beautiful smiles. He winks at you enticing laughter out of your pretty lips. A twinge of sadness hits him. He’s aware he will have to leave you, leave all of this very soon. A part of him would love to stay here, with you, tending to this flower shop together for as long as you would have him, but another part of him knows he could never last here. He was dangerous. He had made enemies in his lifetime that would find him and put an end to the peace that flowed here. He could not put you in that type of danger. He would not put you in that type of danger. It was all so very unfortunate. He took a deep breath, rolled up his sleeves once more, picked up another bucket of marigolds, and headed outside again.
As Prosciutto placed the bucket down, he plucked one of the marigolds out of the bunch and twirled it between his fingers. He recalled the night you had brought home a ninth bouquet of marigolds to the apartment.
“Are marigolds your favorite flower Shae?”
“No, sunflowers are. Why?”
“This is the ninth bunch of marigolds you have brought home this week.”
“Oh. Well, I mean they remind me of home, and they have an interesting symbolism I suppose.”
“They remind you of home?”
“Yeah, in Mexican culture, marigolds are used to decorate altars for Day of the Dead. The marigold also holds multiple symbolisms. They can stand for cruelty, grief, or jealousy, but they can also stand for passion and bravery. Overall, they’re beautiful to look at.”
‘You’re beautiful to look at’ he thought as he nodded.
He glanced down at the marigold in between his fingers and then through the window at you. You were stunning. More brilliant than the sun itself. More beautiful than any flower. You made him feel something. Perhaps he could stay. Perhaps you and him could-
“Prosciutto! Prosciutto!”
Prosciutto was pulled away from his thoughts by a voice he had not heard in a while. He placed the marigold back in its place and turned around to face a winded Pesci.
“Prosciutto! Where did you go? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
“I’ve been here.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Prosciutto sees you stepping outside curiously looking at the new face in front of the shop.
“We have to get back to base Prosci. Let’s go!”
Prosciutto glances back at you. You meet his gaze evenly.
“Are you leaving now Pro?” You ask softly, afraid that you already knew what his answer would be. You had grown accustomed to having him around. Accustomed to waking up with him, working alongside him, and simply being together.
“I’ll go…get my things. Wait here Pesci.”
Prosciutto made his way toward your apartment. You stood still, tears gathering in your eyes. Signora Luisa had stepped out of the shop and now tightly held your hand in her own. Pesci looked at you curiously.
“Why are you crying?”
“Leave her alone Pesci.”
Your eyes shifted to Prosciutto who now dawned his repaired suit jacket. You drew in a deep, shaky breath. He was really going. You knew he would. One day. You didn’t know it would hurt like this though. A part of you had hoped he wouldn’t. That he would send Pesci away. That he would choose to stay. He took a step closer to you. You squeezed Signora Luisa’s hand tighter before letting go.
“Shae. Shae,” his blue eyes gazed softly into yours, “Thank you.”
Tears fell down your cheeks as he gently pulled you closer and enveloped you in his arms. You breathed him in for a moment before he pulled away. Slowly he leaned down and pressed his lips against your forehead.
“You missed.”
Prosciutto looked at you. Confusion was written across his handsome features.
“You missed,” you repeated, a wave of boldness taking over you. You reached out for the lapels of his jacket, pulled him down to you, and pressed your lips against his. He stood still for a fragment of time, and just as you moved to pull back, he placed his hand on your waist and pulled you closer. His kiss was slow and attentive, as if he were trying to memorize every little bit of you. It was his attempt to sear you into his own being. To sear himself into yours. You wrapped your hands around his neck as he pressed you closer to him. His hand gently cupped your face; his thumb caressing your cheek. Reluctantly, he pulled away from you, sadness painting his blue eyes. The tears found a home in your eyes again. You took a deep breath. He took a deep breath and turned to Pesci.
“Let’s go.”
Pesci nodded and began walking away from the flower shop. Prosciutto allowed himself one more moment to take you in before he turned on his heel and began walking off.
“Prosciutto wait!”
He turned his head to see you briskly walking towards him. In your hand a marigold. He turned to face you completely. You took another deep breath and gently placed the marigold in the breast pocket of his jacket. Prosciutto placed his hand over yours for a moment.
“Remember me, okay Prosciutto?”
“Always amore, always.”